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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203838">counting my blessings</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/quensty/pseuds/quensty'>quensty</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>godless [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All For The Game - Nora Sakavic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Historical, Bandits &amp; Outlaws, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Wild West</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:20:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,354</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203838</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/quensty/pseuds/quensty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The last letter is from Wymack.</p><p><em>Allison</em>, it says. <em>Forest Falls, California, has been having problems with a robber. Dan and Matt are too far, and Neil and Andrew are already working a job in Nevada. Get on it. -DW</em></p><p>“Motherfucker,” Allison says.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Allison Reynolds/Renee Walker (All For The Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>godless [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1768783</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>counting my blessings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>oh my god? this has, like, actual plot and shit? *sticks my hands in the plot holes* and it has pockets 🙂 </p><p>this is part of a series (technically) tho it can be read and was honestly written as a stand-alone piece. </p><p>u can reblog the fic <a href="https://quensty.tumblr.com/post/623385367634231296/fic-counting-my-blessings-all-for-the-game">here!</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Reynolds family is considered royalty in New England. They own several estates across the northeastern seaboard, though only one west of the Mississippi. It sits two hours away from the Sonoran Desert, slotted between a shaded valley and patch of green vegetation.</p><p>The ranch technically doesn’t belong to Allison anymore, not since she hightailed it out of Boston at eighteen to follow Wymack and his pack of wolves past the sunset, but she <em>has</em> managed to scare off every messenger bearing another letter from her parents demanding she leaves for the last five years, which she thinks is tantamount to owning it.</p><p>This messenger is particularly jumpy. He shakes in his shiny shoes, cowering behind the property gate like he thinks he’s safe there, like Allison isn’t cradling a rifle and watching him from her porch.</p><p>He finds his spine after only a minute of gaping like a fish on land, but Allison still has a bead on him and isn’t shy about putting it to good use, or would he like to place his bets? He blurts out, <em>No, ma’am. Right away, ma’am, </em>and vanishes like a ghost in the wind, looking hunted.</p><p>“That’s the second one this week,” Renee observes from behind the screen door. She must be freshly showered; she’s not wearing the same tattered trousers from yesterday, and the straws of hay that were poking out of her hair this morning are gone. Instead, she's pulled on one of Allison’s soft button-ups and let her damp hair hang loose around her ears. </p><p>Their last case had taken longer than expected, and they’d ridden horseback an entire day to make it back before dawn. Allison still feels sore something awful, and after four hours of sleep, there’s still a dull pulsing at the base of her skull.</p><p>Allison checks the chamber: empty. Fucking moron. “Sure is.”</p><p>“There will be more,” she goes on, “so you could refrain from enjoying it quite so thoroughly.”</p><p>“They’re the ones coming here, Renee, and I’ve never actually taken a shot at one.”</p><p>“There was that fellow last month.”</p><p>Allison waves a dismissive hand. “I made him dance, is all. Hardly worth a lecture.”</p><p>Renee gazes at her in gentle disapproval, though she should know by now Allison would rather chew off her own hand than cave.</p><p>Still, Allison is the one to look away first, slinging her gun over her shoulder and ducking back inside. The clock on the far wall informs her it’s nearly ten in the morning—a later start for her than usual. Renee’s cooking wafts past the kitchen, the door left ajar, so she takes a quick shower before joining Renee at the table.</p><p>Renee doesn’t say anything when she walks in. Instead, she keeps her posture relaxed and friendly as she pages through the newspaper, the cheaper kind that leaves black smudges on her fingertips. The sunshine streaming in backlights her and flares over the angles of her face. She looks haloed, touched by something holy.</p><p>There’s a plate of eggs and roasted ham waiting for Allison, so she grabs the neglected mail waiting by the counter and plops down in her seat.</p><p>Most of it is letters from Andrew and Nicky that she sets aside for Renee to open later. A handful are newspaper subscriptions, and a single, hand-sized envelope is addressed in her father’s handwriting, his glossy, ochre-colored sigil stamped on the back. The last one is from Wymack. Allison sips at her coffee and tears it open.</p><p><em>Allison</em>, it says. <em>Forest Falls, California, has been having problems with a robber. Dan and Matt are too far, and Neil and Andrew are already working a job in Nevada. Get on it. -DW</em></p><p>“Motherfucker,” Allison says.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>A year ago, Riko Moriyama was killed in a mining accident.</p><p>At least, that was what every major newspaper across the country reported.</p><p>The morning the story broke, Neil rode back from a meeting with Ichirou looking bloodied, bruised, and scraped raw. The rest of them had been waiting for him and his shadow all night, but no one said a word as he and his monster approached the porch.</p><p>He stared at them for a moment, glancing at the newspaper in Wymack’s hands, and said darkly, <em>It wasn’t a mining accident. </em></p><p>That same day, he told them they’d all been acquitted, and as long as they promised to steer clear of Moriyama Industries, all their problems would be buried with Riko. Allison didn’t have to be a fucking genius to put two and two together.</p><p>After four years of vandalizing, attacking, and unloading hell on Moriyama Industries, they found themselves in unfamiliar territory.</p><p><em>So, what?</em> Nicky demanded. <em>Are we supposed to get honest jobs now? Live like an average Joe? </em></p><p>Dan, who had dedicated more time out of all of them waiting for the day they could finally move on with their lives, narrowed her eyes. <em>Yes</em>.</p><p>It’s been nearly a year since they all lived under one roof. Most of them moved further up north. Nicky climbed aboard the first ship he could find back to Europe. Aaron grabbed one of the local farm girls and took her to the east coast.</p><p>Allison’s ranch echoes with their absence. Empty rooms, empty stables, and too much newfound space in the bathroom. Dan, Matt, and Wymack regularly send letters. Sometimes they’re social, and other times it’s a rushed note asking if she’ll cover a case a few towns away. No matter what bullshit Dan spits out, old habits die hard, which means Allison bitches at Renee about feeling like a fucking errand boy every time Dan asks, then sends back an equally bitchy letter to Dan saying she’ll do it.</p><p>Renee typically tolerates this, though she does sometimes remind Allison that she doesn’t have to say yes, that their lives belong to them now. She’ll pause from where she’s cooking breakfast or sponging her horse’s fur or cutting her hair with a steak knife over the bathroom sink to watch Allison silently. <em>We could leave this behind</em>, she says, sometimes out loud and sometimes with her gaze, <em>whenever we please. </em></p><p>Allison never responds, mostly because it just reminds her that Renee is right. Both of them have choices now. They could leave and start anew somewhere else. Nothing ties them here anymore, which means there’s nothing stopping Renee from putting all this behind her, too, maybe buying a train ticket somewhere and disappearing. Any moment, she could pack her bags and walk out the front door, and the only thing worse than her going through with it is Allison breaking down to demand when Renee plans on leaving because Allison is sick of waiting. Her anticipation and dread are like a festering disease.</p><p>Renee might think their moorings are built on sand, but Allison knows down to her bones she’s permanently hooked. She’ll never leave this place, not as long as Renee lives in it. Maybe not even then, not while Renee’s memory still haunts it, suspended over dust.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Renee inspects the letter again. “It’s only a day’s ride. Maybe less, depending on how badly we’re needed.”</p><p>Allison makes an incandescent noise from behind the ham in her mouth. “We just came back from needed!” she says, mouth still half-full.</p><p>That was meant to be a simple job, too. A cattle baron was stringing up rustlers at the local saloon to put the fear of God in his neighbors, and after leaving the families to wallow in their terror for a week, he would make them an offer to buy their land.</p><p>Renee put a bullet through his kneecap when he gripped Allison by the throat and shoved her repeatedly against the plaster of his dining room wall, her teeth rattling. They shouldn’t have gone for him at his house, but they never could’ve cornered him anywhere else.</p><p>Renee studies her. “We could leave tomorrow if you prefer.” She pauses. “Or I could do this alone.”</p><p>“You’re not going alone, Renee.” She snatches back the letter and reads it again. Fuck. Her ass still hurts from the all-nighter they pulled, the fruit bowl’s worth of bruises under her chin still ache, and most of their clothes are dirty or bloody or both. They’re running low on ammunition, too, but if Allison stretches the money out and finds a saloon as soon as they hit Forest Falls, they could do reconnaissance and hustle a few morons the same night. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>“We’ll leave today,” Allison says. “We can be there by tomorrow evening.”</p><p>Renee nods and pushes away from the table, taking her coffee with her. “I’ll start gathering our things.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>They leave not an hour later at high noon. The sun beats down on them mercilessly. Even Allison’s horse is starting to feel the wear of the last 48 hours, huffing and puffing hot and damp against Allison’s fingers. Once upon a time, they lived up north and only ever worked this hard during polo matches where they were served water cold and clear as the untouched pools on high mountains. A lifetime later, Allison is trudging through weather so dry the inside of her mouth tastes like sand. </p><p>They start camp under a canopy of trees once the sun dips past the horizon. Allison soothes and feeds the horses while Renee gathers wood for a fire. Once they’ve finished, Allison unearths two cans of beans and a flask before claiming a spot by the open flame. The temperature has finally dipped to something reasonable, so the crackle and lick of heat is a welcome sensation against the chill. </p><p>Renee joins her just as Allison cracks the first can open with her knife. Allison hands it to her.</p><p>“Thank you," Renee says. </p><p>“Don’t thank me yet.” Allison braves a spoonful. She didn’t finish her breakfast this morning when her throat made it clear it still hurt to swallow. “It’s no home-cooked breakfast.”</p><p>“How are you feeling?”</p><p>“Fine.” She chokes down another mouthful. It hurts more than the first one, so Allison chases it with a sip from her flask, hoping the sting will act as a focal point for the discomfort. She’s fucking never going back to Texas, she vows.</p><p>“You’re in pain,” Renee says. It's not a question. </p><p>Allison bristles. She hates being coddled. “Let it go, Renee.”</p><p>“If you’re injured and hungry, you’re no use to me if we run into trouble.”</p><p>“I can still shoot a gun on an empty stomach,” she argues.</p><p>“But your judgment will be impaired,” Renee says like Allison is such a trial—which: fair. Her gaze is flinty before it softens incrementally. Renee long ago mastered the art of repressing her frustration, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still there, humming like a live wire. She blinks slowly and once, which for a cat is as good as a kiss. “Let me help you.”</p><p>There’s no good reason for her to refuse, besides the fact that Renee’s hands on her is never a good idea. Allison never knows what to do with Renee so close to her, soothing away all the parts that make Allison ache except one, the one that longs for Renee with a hunger far more debilitating than a few missed meals.</p><p>Finally, she nods, forces her hackles down.</p><p>Renee digs out a tin container from her bag, pops it open, lathers a sticky ointment over her palms, and—after Allison nods her head—gently begins massaging it around her neck. Renee is so close she’s practically sitting in Allison’s lap. Renee, who always smells like an intoxicating mix of basil and citrus. Renee, who kneels only for God—and apparently, also Allison.</p><p>The whole thing must last hours, days, no time at all. Even once Renee takes her hands away, Allison feels the phantom warmth of her fingers, real as anything. Allison watches her wind clean fabric over the wound the same way she wraps the tail-end of her rosaries around her left wrist.</p><p>“Thanks,” she says because this is so fucking embarrassing, all of it: the fact that she slipped up on their last case, that she snapped at Renee for something this stupid, the way Allison’s huge, obvious crush only grows more huge and obvious with each passing day. </p><p>But Renee only shares one of her small, almost-smiles, the ones she only ever aims at Allison, her expression balancing on the razor edge between bland and kind.</p><p>“You’re welcome,” she says and sits back on her heels, away from Allison.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>They make it to Forest Falls the next evening, and it takes them no time at all to find the town’s hotspot for indecency.</p><p>The saloon is the size of a cupboard and as crowded as a chicken coop. The floorboards are creaky and close to splintering, caked in muddy boot marks and dirt blowing in from outside. Cigarette smoke curls overhead, making the air feel too hot and stifling.</p><p>Allison has never considered herself to be small, but from the second she walks in, she’s jostled right and left by strangers holding trays of shot glasses and people with cigars pushed between their teeth. Allison generously lets it slide three times before she begins feeling vaguely murderous, so Renee takes her by the wrist and pushes a path to the bar, sitting her down at an empty stool.</p><p>The counter is sticky under her elbows. It could be grease or sweat or something else entirely. Allison waves over the bartender and orders two drinks.</p><p>“Is the whole fucking town in here?” Allison asks.</p><p>“It is a weekend night,” Renee says absently, surveying the crowd. She looks like she’s searching for something. She blinks and looks at Allison. “Though I wasn’t expecting a group quite this large.”</p><p>“I know this place is new on the map, but not even a town this small has two churches but only one den of iniquity.”</p><p>It’s a phrase Matt used to describe a brothel they went to once. He was strangely uncomfortable for a guy who grew up out of a barn in the Midwest and was probably cousins with the guy who invented vulgarity.</p><p>Renee asks, “Do you miss them?”</p><p>Some days, Allison does privately miss them. Matt, the eldest of seven siblings, was the only one who knew how to cook, and Dan was the only person who always took Allison’s swearing and dirty jokes in stride. She misses Seth, misses having someone in her bed who wants her there, misses the tenderness, misses having someone to look after.</p><p>But more days than not, she doesn’t. It’s hard to miss them when she has Renee in her house, borrowing her clothes, learning how to cook, brandishing her gun, and tending to Allison’s wounds. Allison could be dirt poor and living off peanuts and she’d never feel like she was lacking anything with Renee.</p><p>But Allison can’t say any of this, not to her, so the universe graces Allison with some rare good fortune. The bartender interrupts to hand Allison two moist beer bottles with the caps popped off. Allison murmurs, “Fucking finally,” and downs the neck in one pull.</p><p>Renee watches her blankly for a moment, peeling idly at the label with her thumb, before turning back to the crowd.</p><p>Across the room, a bustling group of men are causing a racket as they finish up a card game, smacking each other on the backs as they exchange hands and pocket their winnings. One of the waitresses collects a dozen shot glasses and replaces them with a new round.</p><p>Renee sets down her bottle. “I’ll be back.”</p><p>“Don’t hoodwink them too good,” she tells her. With their luck, they’ll be here for a while longer, and the last thing they need is a reputation.</p><p>Renee pushes easily through the tables again, making a beeline for the chair the last schmuck just emptied. Allison drains the last of her beer and starts in on Renee’s as she watches the bartender wipe down the counter with a rag. The stitched, loopy writing on his apron says, <em>Sam, </em>which is just about the most absurd thing Allison has ever seen. He’s young, but he looks too pale and drawn for a kid growing up in southern California. Allison catches his eye and makes the universal motion for a refill.</p><p>“What’ll it be, miss?” he asks.</p><p>Allison smiles. “Whatever you like best.”</p><p>He stops, frozen in his tracks before flushing so bright she can make it out in the low light. He nods, equal parts flattered and shocked, before pouring out something in a glass for her and–after a moment’s hesitation–another for him.</p><p>The liquid is dark and goes down like it’s trying to strip a layer of her throat. She clears it. “So, d’ya know any places around here I can get a room for a reasonable price?”</p><p>“Mrs. Taylor rents out rooms to travelers not far from here. Um, that way," he says, pointing. "I’m sure she can find you somethin’.”</p><p>“You familiar with her?”</p><p>He nods. “Yes, ma’am. She’s my godmother.”</p><p>“Would you say just about everyone knows everyone around here?”</p><p>“Not a lot of folks come in or out if that’s what you mean,” he says, cleaning out some glasses and popping open a few bottles to send down the counter. A few of the folks standing around give them slow, meaningful looks. He sighs. “And gossip travels fast.”</p><p>“What kinda gossip?”</p><p>He cracks a wry, shy smile. “Who was seen with who whatever night, who left with who, that kinda stuff.”</p><p>Allison nods and casts a glance back at where Renee has been dealt cards and is probably working to look like an amateur. For someone who wears a cross around her neck, doesn’t drink, doesn’t swear, and reminds Allison Sunday mornings to count her blessings, Renee is scary good at hustling.</p><p>Sam raps his knuckles against the countertop, probably trying to think of something to say that’ll pique her interest, and adds, “Who they think has been stealing all the whiskey around town.”</p><p>Allison rewards him with her full, undivided attention. “Someone’s been stealing whiskey?”</p><p>“Practically run the whole town dry. Why do you think it’s so busy tonight?” He gestures. “We’re farther away from the mining sites, but we’re the only ones still sellin’ it.”</p><p>She leans forward. “When did this start?”</p><p>He shrugs. “’Bout two weeks ago.”</p><p>Around the end of July, then, or the beginning of August. It’s recent enough that the topic is still hot and suspicion is a looming storm, but no moron just wakes up one morning and decides to pocket every bottle of liquor they can find in a town as small as this. Something like this takes planning, and it’s a coin toss on whether they’re lying low here until things quiet down or they cut their losses and made a break for it days ago.</p><p>“Everyone reckons it might be the preacher,” he confides.</p><p>Allison’s mouth twitches. “A man of God?”</p><p>“He lives in plenty of sin. He’s heavy with the drinks, and lately, the parishioners have been gettin’ on him to lay off. Hasn’t been in for a coupla weeks.”</p><p>Allison hums. “He’s a regular here?”</p><p>“He’s a regular anywhere that’ll fill his glass.”</p><p>A sudden exclamation goes out from the card table. A few of the men are huffing as Renee gathers her winnings. A few others are laughing uncontrollably. Allison decides to play it safe and pull them out of here before any shit blows up in their faces. The last thing they need is one of these tipsy sons a bitches to lay a hand on Renee and find themselves shanked.</p><p>“Mrs. Taylor, you said?” Allison asks.</p><p>“Yes, ma’am.”</p><p>She starts emptying her pockets to cover the bill when he stops her. “No need. On the house.”</p><p>“On the house,” she echoes.</p><p>He smiles at her. “For the company.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Taylor does offer them her last room once they mention Sam. She dismisses Allison as a godless city slicker upon introduction but takes an immediate liking to Renee with her silver cross and soft, velvety voice. Typical.</p><p>“There’s only one bed,” Renee says.</p><p>To make matters worse, the sheets are scratchy and worn thin with age. It’s hot now, but the chill will creep in around midnight, which means that while Allison is crafting her elaborate argument for why Renee should take the bed and let Allison sleep on the floor—and for when that inevitably fails—she’s also planning how to keep herself from curling like an open parenthesis around Renee during the night.</p><p>“Is that a problem?”</p><p>“I don’t like being touched in my sleep,” she says, “but I can cope with a little less room. Otherwise, I can take the floor.”</p><p>It’s not anything Allison didn’t already know, but for a split second, agreement balances on the top of her tongue, or at least an offer to spend the night in the stables. The last time Allison slept in a bed with someone else was with Seth, and Seth liked being held. Months after he died, Allison would still unconsciously reach out for him in her sleep, wanting to curl her hands at the base of his skull.</p><p>But the floor is fucking filthy, and even Allison isn’t shitty enough to dump anyone on that. Anyway, it's not like they have money to throw around.</p><p>Allison tosses her bag onto the rickety dresser and starts unbuttoning her shirt, heading for the shower. “We'll share, then.”</p><p>The bathroom is small and drab, but the water feels good where it hits her back, so Allison closes her eyes and scrubs the day’s sweat and dirt off her skin.</p><p>She walks out and notices first that Renee is already half-asleep under the covers and that the oil lamp is still burning on the nightstand, which is wedged between Renee’s side of the bed and the wall. Allison crawls in next to Renee before she reaches over—careful to arch her body—to blow it out.</p><p>As soon as it goes dark, Renee whispers, “Allison?”</p><p>Allison freezes where she is. She hears the covers shift before she looks down and sees Renee blinking up at her.</p><p>She swallows. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Did you get anything out of the patrons?”</p><p>“Word is the local preacher stole the whiskey,” Allison says. “Apparently, he has a vice.”</p><p>Renee shakes her head. “No. Churches have their own stock of wine for services. He wouldn’t need to steal it.”</p><p>“Unless he wanted to cover his tracks.”</p><p>“It’s a possibility,” she relents, “though I still think it’s unlikely. It’s easier to play the victim of your own crime.”</p><p>She’s not wrong. Allison sighs. “What about you? You get anything good out of those guys?” She grins. “Besides their money.”</p><p>Renee’s eyes sparkle like water rushing over jagged rocks. She guides Allison into lying down, her clothes brushing Allison’s bare arms. She’s wearing a soft undershirt Allison suspects once belonged to Dan. “Go to sleep. We can talk about this tomorrow.”</p><p>Allison doesn’t have to be told twice. She burrows further into the shitty, lumpy mattress, feeling like hell itself chewed her up and spit her back out.</p><p>“Good night,” she tells Allison. Allison hears herself mumble something in reply, though she doesn’t know what, already lost in sleep.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Allison stirs when a hand alights on her shoulder. She blinks her eyes open and finds Renee’s shadowed profile in the dim light, hovering over where Allison is still sprawled—thank God—on her own side of the bed.</p><p>“A boy came by while you were sleeping,” Renee says as Allison sits up, kicking away the covers at her feet. Renee points at the nightstand where a handful of sea lavender sits in a cup. “He left you those.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ.” Allison picks it up. Bits of dirt and leaves combined with condensation stick to her fingers. She can imagine Sam picking this out of his neighbor’s garden with vivid clarity, fidgeting on his way to her door.</p><p>“I thought it was sweet.”</p><p>“You would.” Allison glances up at her and stops. Renee is wearing pink, empire-waist dress with a straw bonnet. She always looks lovely, sure, but as she throws the window shades open and stands there with the orange morning glow pouring over her, she looks nothing short of angelic. For a moment, all Allison can do is stare. “Why are you wearing that?”</p><p>Renee twinkles with amusement. “It’s Sunday.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“Where are you ladies headin'?” Mrs. Taylor calls out, marching up to them on their way past her office, a room conveniently located so she can monitor anyone walking in or out. She sounds ready to accuse them of something.</p><p>“To mass, ma’am,” Renee says.</p><p>Mrs. Taylor brightens. “Well. I’m glad to see you honoring the Lord. Unlike your friend.” At that, she slides Allison a hateful glance. Allison dislikes her immensely.</p><p>“I’m joining her,” she snaps.</p><p>They both ignore her. “Could you tell us where we can find the closest church?”</p><p>Mrs. Taylor blabs out directions Allison ignores in favor of boring holes into Mrs. Taylor’s turned back and hoping she catches fire. Renee must notice because she leads Allison away by the elbow as soon as Mrs. Taylor is done.</p><p>“You wear a specific expression when you want to shoot someone,” Renee mentions innocently.</p><p>“You could refrain from enjoying this so much,” Allison cracks back and glowers at Renee and her smug little smile.</p><p>“Are you going to lecture me now?”</p><p>“You can be such an asshole sometimes,” she complains, but she settles more comfortably in Renee’s grip and hooks their arms together, which just makes satisfaction radiate off Renee in waves for the rest of their walk.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The secretary at the church leads them into Father Henry’s small, too-warm office. The wood paneling looks at the point of splitting, and even with the pathetic sigh that passes for wind in southern California blowing through the open window, the heat feels oppressive.</p><p>“Father Henry,” Renee says, extending her hand. “I’m Elizabeth, and this is my sister Margaret. We’re from out of town.”</p><p>“Just Henry, if you please, miss,” he says, setting aside his quill and glasses to greet them. The undersides of his eyes are dark as bruises. “Welcome to St. Theresa Church. To what do I owe the pleasure?”</p><p>Renee starts spouting bullshit, and Allison, being the practiced bullshitter she is, only half listens as she slides a flask out of her pocket. When she starts unscrewing the top, Henry interrupts Renee to tell her, “Young lady, I’m afraid there’s no recreational drinking permitted in my church.”</p><p>“Would you say you’re opposed to drunkenness?” asks Renee.</p><p>Henry blinks at her. “Well, it’s condemned in the Holy Scripture, so I would say so.”</p><p>Renee hums, noncommittal. “Of course,” she agrees, then adds, as if as an afterthought, “my sister and I noticed three saloons on our way in." </p><p>He barks out a short laugh. "Yes, well. My influence is limited."</p><p>"Still. Rather a lot for a town this size. Is drinking a prevalent activity among the people in this community?”</p><p>A beat of silence. </p><p>This time, Henry’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah,” he murmurs. He pulls an expression like he has finally caught on to a joke and realized he was the butt of it. “I understand why you’re here.” At that, he turns back to the paperwork on his desk. “I’m gonna have to—”</p><p>“What?” Allison was fine letting Renee handle this, but she thinks they’re past the pleasantries now. She kicks out one of the chairs and plops down. “Gonna kick us outta your church?”</p><p>“That would be uncalled for,” he says, his shoulders pulled tight as a strung bow, “not to mention odd, though I think you’ve noticed I’m not attached to the orthodox.”</p><p>“We are not interested in baseless rumors,” Renee tells him.</p><p>“Except that you’d like me to prove or disprove them,” he counters.</p><p>Renee doesn’t bother obfuscating. “Yes.”</p><p>He gazes at them, perplexed. “Who are you? Wait. Don't tell me. Good Samaritans?" </p><p>Allison is disgusted. Renee says, “Sure.”</p><p>He slouches back in his chair and runs his hands through his hair. Wisps of gray bloom at his forehead. “Good Lord. This is the last thing I need right now.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Allison says. “Sobriety will do that to you.”</p><p>When he doesn’t bother denying it, Allison offers him the flask. He takes it and swallows down a mouthful, making a face when it hits the back of his throat.</p><p>“I didn’t hold up those saloons,” he says.</p><p>“On account of?”</p><p>“On account of havin' no reason to. I know those families, you know, and I wouldn’t drive away their business like that.” He takes another swig. “They’re good people.”</p><p>Renee and Allison share a glance. Henry watches them. “So, what now?”</p><p>"Now you give me back my alcohol, Father," Allison says pointedly. Henry spares her a scathing glance but passes it back. "And we'll get out of your hair." </p><p>"Should I expect to see this in tomorrow's paper?" </p><p>"We're not journalists, either. We're—what did you call it?—good Samaritans." Allison tilts her head in Renee's direction, who has already crossed the room and is waiting at the door. "Don't trust a woman with faith?" </p><p>“Free will is a blessing and a curse. People can say all kinds of things.” He shrugs. “Most of it is just noise.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The August heat is even more blistering once they set foot outside, heavy enough to wilt her starched collar. The sunshine settles over Allison’s shoulders like a physical weight. They’ve hardly been outside at all and Allison already feels flushed.</p><p>The whole town is awake and bustling up and down the streets by now, vendors on the streets and parents ushering their children to and fro, still wearing their Sunday best.</p><p>“It isn’t him,” Renee says.</p><p>“You didn’t think he was in the first place.” Allison takes off her hat and ties her hair into a knot. “You wanna retroactively place a bet on it?”</p><p>Renee squints at her. Sweat trickles down her forehead. “What do I win?”</p><p>“What do you want?”</p><p>“A drink would be nice.”</p><p>Allison grins. “Woman after my own heart,” she says.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They find a small, quiet spot a few blocks away from St. Theresa. The only customers are some families catching a late breakfast after mass and one woman sitting in the corner alone, clacking away at a typewriter.</p><p>Allison orders oatmeal and milk. Renee asks for a plate of potatoes and eggs. Both of them tell the waiter to bring out a pitcher of water and leave it. It must say something about their appearance that the waiter agrees without a fight.</p><p>“So,” Allison says, “what now?”</p><p>Renee peers at her from over her third glass of water. She taps a soft rhythm against the tabletop. “We’ll have to keep asking around.”</p><p>“Obviously, though I have no goddamn clue where to start. What does anyone need with this much whiskey?” Allison understands cleaning out one bar, but two? That has to be more than anyone knows what to do with.</p><p>Renee takes a bite of her breakfast, stuffs a potato into one cheek. “Competition between businesses? They’re all family-owned.”</p><p>She shakes her head. “Nah. Any of the town gossips would’ve figured it out themselves if it were that easy.” </p><p>They sit in silence for a few moments longer before Renee sets down her utensils and gets to her feet. “Stay here. I may have an idea.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The woman across the restaurant,” Renee explains, dropping her voice low. She steps in close enough that Allison could circle her fingers around her wrist or count her eyelashes. “She’s a journalist.”</p><p>“Sure,” she says, still lost and more than a little distracted. “Why do we care?”</p><p>“Maybe she has an idea of what’s going on, or the local paper may have published an article about it before we arrived.”</p><p>“That’s a lot of maybes.”</p><p>“We do not have any better ideas,” she says.</p><p>Allison admits the point and says nothing in response. Renee’s mouth twitches, and she pushes away, making her way toward the journalist.</p><p>Allison turns back to her meal, and because her life is a cosmic joke, Sam decides at that moment to slide into the opposite chair.</p><p>“Hello,” he says.</p><p>“Christ,” she says, dropping her spoon back into her untouched bowl. She can’t catch a fucking break. “You’re like a bad penny, you know that?”</p><p>“I just wanted to apologize for this morning. I didn’t mean to intrude on you and your, uh,” he stammers, gesturing vaguely before settling on, “your gal.”</p><p>Allison doesn’t even want to know what her expression looks like right now. “My what?”</p><p>“There was a woman in your room,” he says like this explains everything. “Real kind.”</p><p>He must’ve caught a glance of Allison sleeping when he came around this morning, and Renee must’ve answered the door and gently, though vaguely, made excuses for her.</p><p>Renee, half-dressed and in Allison’s room during the early hours of the day.</p><p>Oh my god. “Oh my god,” she says.</p><p>“I’m real sorry.” Sounding hopeful, he asks, “Did you like the flowers?”</p><p>“If you don’t shut up in the next five seconds, Sammy,” she says, “I’m going to shoot you.”</p><p>Of course, Renee decides to appear at Allison’s side just as those words leave her mouth. She trades a glance between her and Sam.</p><p>“Hello again,” she says to him.</p><p>Sam tips his hat but doesn’t say a word. Intelligently, Allison thinks.</p><p>“Would you like to join us for lunch?” Renee goes on, but before Sam can even consider opening his mouth, Allison cuts in, “Actually, we’re leaving.”</p><p>She drops a few bills, grabs Renee, and practically runs out without sparing him a backward glance. Renee endures this for exactly two minutes before saying, “Are you going to explain to me what’s wrong?”</p><p>“No,” she snaps, then stops in her tracks, adjusting her skirts angrily and pushing imaginary stray hairs out of her face. Dan used to call her stupid and reckless when she dressed like she was still an oil baron’s daughter, but Allison couldn’t care less. She evidently can still toss out threats like candy and run in a dress.</p><p>This is a bad habit left over from Allison’s teenage years. She never let wounds heal right, always scratched and worried at scabs until they bled. She tongued at her loose teeth and scratched mosquito bites until they swelled just to feel the sting, just because she was bored. It’s the same bad habit that made her take a swing at Aaron despite knowing Andrew would kill her for it, that fueled the temper tantrums she threw around Seth, that drove her into gnashing her teeth and manhandling Renee just now.</p><p>Renee hates it when Allison gets like this. They’ve had some truly fantastic fights about it in the past. The last time Allison got like this was because Renee was chewing the rag with some blacksmith’s daughter while Nicky snuck into her father’s office, and Allison ruined the entire plan because the girl ran her hand up Renee’s arm. Renee didn’t speak to her for days after that.</p><p>It shouldn’t even be a problem, but Renee and Allison become a more sensitive topic with each passing day, one that Allison hates being reminded of because it reminds her how fucking stupid she’s being about the whole thing.</p><p>“The kid,” Allison says. “He thought he caught us in medias.”</p><p>Renee nods and admits, “I thought so. I didn’t do much to correct him this morning.”</p><p>Allison lets that marinate in her mind for a second. “You didn’t.” It’s not quite a question.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Renee just looks at her like the answer should be obvious, like she sees a secret on Allison’s face. She cups Allison’s jaw, right there in front of the townspeople and for God to see. A part of Allison itches to pull away and be cruel to hide her pathetic, panting worship, but she’s trying to remember she isn’t that person anymore, and Renee isn’t Seth. Renee’s thumb sweeps over her cheek and Allison melts.</p><p>“Come on,” Renee says.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>When they make it back to the room, they hover by the door. Allison’s jackrabbit heartbeat pounds in her throat, so loud it’s a wonder that Renee can’t hear it. Maybe she can. Maybe she can taste it when she presses her mouth, close-lipped, against the inside of Allison’s wrist.</p><p>“You—“ Allison starts, faltering when Renee meets her eyes, immediately forgetting everything she wanted to say.</p><p>“Are you sure about this?” asks Renee. </p><p>“This is the mother lode of all bad ideas,” Allison says, as if she hasn’t always chosen bad ideas over good ones without fail. Renee stares at her like she’s unsure how to take that, so Allison admits, “You’ll ruin me for anyone else.”</p><p>Then it seems like the only sensible thing left to do is catch Renee’s face between her hands, crowd her slowly against the door. The only thing that makes sense is to kiss Renee for all she’s worth, sucking at the pout of her mouth.</p><p>Renee has remarkable restraint, except, apparently, when she doesn’t. Her hands immediately unpin Allison’s hair, grab a handful at the roots, and pull. Allison makes a surprised noise, and Renee makes a small, answering sound against her mouth.</p><p>Allison puts her own hand flat against Renee’s stomach, the other palming her hip, dragging her in even closer. Renee’s mouth is still cool from her drink, tastes sweeter than milk and honey, so Allison licks into her mouth and runs her tongue over her teeth.</p><p>“Wait,” Renee says, breaking away. “I have something for you.”</p><p>Allison leans back, more than a little confused why they're stopping. Then again, if it were up to Allison, they would do this all day long.</p><p>From the folds of her dress, Renee pulls out a dripping piece of cloth. It’s only after the sharp shock of it touches Allison’s neck that she realizes it’s ice. Her breath catches in her throat. It stings where it touches the lingering, yellowing bruises, but after a while, the pain ebbs away, relief seeping in like ink onto paper, blotting out everything else. </p><p>Renee leads her toward the edge of the bed and sits her down, digs around in the bag she left by the drawers before pulling out the same tin container from the other night.</p><p>“I got it from the cooks before we left,” she says because she clearly still doesn’t understand that Allison prefers to be the mother hen in her relationships. “It should help the last of the pain go away.”</p><p>Allison opens and closes her mouth uselessly. She’s always been terrible with words, all of them always bound to piss off her parents and Seth and everyone else whenever she tries, so instead, she hides kisses on Renee’s wrist, her cheek, the bridge of her nose as Renee rubs the ointment on her neck. Renee huffs out a laugh, the happiest sound Allison’s ever heard from her.</p><p>She meets Allison halfway for the next one, indulgent and slow and lavish.</p><p>“Allison,” she murmurs. “Allison,” she repeats, louder, “We have to wrap it.”</p><p>“Not yet,” she says, nosing under the curve of Renee’s jaw, who sighs and tilts her face up. Allison's fingers begin working at the ribbon tying Renee's bonnet in place. Her knuckles brush over Renee's jugular, and that, of all things, is what makes Renee shiver. </p><p>"Allison," she repeats, this time remarkably less adamant, like if given the choice, she, too, would want this forever. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Allison wakes up alone.</p><p>The bed is still dented where Renee should be, and when Allison reaches out, she finds the linens are warm under her fingertips. The late afternoon sun streams in through the slightly parted curtains, the sounds of children playing in the streets and the hum of cicadas slipping through the cracked window.</p><p>Allison sleeps with a gun under her pillow, and Renee keeps a sleeve of knives under hers. Both of them are still there when Allison checks—not an emergency, then.</p><p>She takes her time showering and pulling on clothes, but the room is still empty when she walks out of the bathroom. The small voice in Allison’s head that sounds like Renee insists she give her time, but Allison has never been a patient person, so she shoves on her boots and heads downstairs.</p><p>She means to head to the stables, but she stops on her way past Mrs. Taylor’s office. She deliberates for a second before turning the doorknob, not bothering to knock. They already hate each other, and Allison has better ways to spend her time than exchanging pleasantries with a harpy.</p><p>Allison walks in to find Renee there with two plastic cups in hand, walking Allison’s way with Mrs. Taylor in tow. They’re talking animatedly about something—or Mrs. Taylor is while Renee politely pretends to listen. Both of their eyes dart toward Allison when she throws the door open hard enough for the doorknob to smack against the wall, the sound like a gunshot.</p><p>“What the fuck?” she blurts.</p><p>“Young lady,” Mrs. Taylor scolds. “It’s <em>Sunday. </em>Don’t you have any shame?”</p><p>Allison bares her teeth. “No.”</p><p>“Thank you for the coffee,” Renee says, taking the last few steps past the threshold. She shuts the door behind her and neatly cuts off whatever screaming match might’ve transpired. She hands Allison one of the cups. “Hello.”</p><p>Renee’s bandana is crooked around her neck, revealing the hollow of her throat. Allison wishes she could apply her mouth there. Instead, she takes the cup and relishes the moment their fingers brush. “What are you doing here, Renee?”</p><p>“I thought about what you said this morning," she says, "about the gossip. The fastest way I could think of getting my hands on it was by asking Mrs. Taylor.”</p><p>Allison grins at that. Renee isn’t ever cutting to anyone that isn’t her, so Allison hoards all the rare, thrilling moments when she is. “And?”</p><p>“The journalist told me everyone suspects Sam is the one stealing. I came to have Mrs. Taylor confirm it, which she did.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Apparently, they’ve been having financial problems for some time now. The sudden influx of customers has helped them stay afloat, and they’re the only ones who haven’t been robbed.” Renee takes one look at Allison’s reaction and says, “It was possible he was just doing what he thought was best.”</p><p>“He’s just a kid, Renee,” she says. “Trust me. He didn’t do this.”</p><p>“I do trust you,” she says, “and I agree.”</p><p>“Then why come down here?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t have agreed half an hour ago.” She untucks a newspaper from under her arm and hands it to Allison. The headline reads: <em>LIQUOR THIEF STRIKES THIRD BAR IN TWO WEEKS</em>. The article details how the robber not only held up the saloon but did something they didn’t do to any of the others: they smashed windows, broke stools, knocked bottles off their shelves. The damages will cost the family a small fortune.</p><p>“Great,” Allison grunts. “Any more good news?”</p><p>“Mrs. Taylor mentioned another man,” she says. “He used to buy massive quantities of alcohol and sell them in dry states for twice the money.”</p><p>“Used to?”</p><p>“He was caught a few times. He’s been living as a recluse for years.”</p><p>“So no one has seen him?”</p><p>“No,” Renee says, “but his land hasn’t been sold, either.”</p><p>“Wouldn't be a bad cover,” Allison thinks out loud. “Hold up a few places where no one remembers your face and doesn’t know if you’re still alive. Mrs. Taylor really knew all this?”</p><p>“I told you to be nice to her," Renee reminds her.</p><p>She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”</p><p>“He lives outside of town.” Renee tucks the newspaper back under her arm. “I think we should pay him a visit.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Shit hits the fan as soon as she steps onto Rudy Miller’s property.</p><p>Miller hasn’t been seen in town in six years, and everything about him makes this immediately clear. His house sits in the middle of nowhere, and once upon a time, it might’ve been a nice place, but over the years, the vegetation has grown wild and sparse, enveloping the walls with weeds. The pathway leading up to his home is rocky and cracked open, and the barn behind his home resembles a shack more than anything else, like a nine-year-old built it with wooden panels they found lying around in a junkyard.</p><p>Allison leaves her horse in the surrounding forest, hidden by the underbrush and old trees. A cart lies in the middle of a yard separating the house from the barn, tipped on its side. (One of the wheels has been removed, and a newer one exactly like it sits only a few feet away.) </p><p>The plan is simple: Allison knocks on Miller’s screen door, looking all kinds of agitated, and plays the part of the rich girl whose horse has run off and left her stranded in this dusty blip on the map. Meanwhile, Renee takes advantage of the distraction by smashing open the lock on the double doors leading to Miller’s cellar.</p><p>(They’d searched the area before investigating, obviously, and Renee, crouched behind the mulberry bushes lining the property, had been the one to point out the cellar to her—an uncommon and downright puzzling thing to have in California. Usually, the only reason to build one was to store wine. Allison would bet everything she owns that Miller doesn’t bottle and age wine himself.</p><p>“Allison,” Renee had begun to say, but Allison cut her off with a, “Yeah,” as she started changing out of her man-sized shirt and pants and into her claustrophobic, aristocratic skirts. “I can see which way the wind is blowing.”)</p><p>It should’ve worked perfectly. All Allison had to do was keep Miller occupied for however long it took Renee to find the stolen liquor, but for all that Miller is a reclusive, senile thief with no prospects, he isn’t an idiot.</p><p>He doesn’t trust the look of Allison on his front step from the start, and he doesn’t bite when Allison offers a story. As soon as she steps inside the house, she knows this whole thing is quickly going to escalate into a total pain in the ass.</p><p>Now, she has her knee on Miller’s chest and blood speckling her collar—he caught her with a roundhouse punch. Allison’s cheek is probably already swelling.</p><p>“You know,” she says, trying to slip her pistol out from her boot and hold him down at the same time, “I was planning on being civil about this.”</p><p>Suddenly, there’s a sound of footsteps from somewhere behind her, a heavy staccato making its way closer fast. On instinct, Allison redirects her attention, glancing over her shoulder and letting up for a second, a fraction of a second.</p><p>It’s a mistake. A second is all he needs.</p><p>Allison ends up with an arm wrapped snug and unyielding around her neck. The gun Allison knocked out of his hands earlier is (a) kicked out of reach and (b) completely fucking useless after she emptied the chamber and scattered the bullets across the floor. Allison feels a swell of satisfaction before he pulls a knife out from under his—suspiciously—long sleeves.</p><p>(Allison makes a mental note to get one of those. That’s three people she’s met now that strap hidden knives under their clothes.)</p><p>“Who are you?” he barks, and it takes Allison a moment to realize he’s not talking to her.</p><p>“Rudy Miller,” Renee says, cold as steel, “let her go.”</p><p>Miller digs the knife in deeper, hard enough to draw blood. Allison feels it trickle down and pool at her collarbone. “And if I say no?”</p><p>“Then you leave me no choice but to shoot you.”</p><p>“Your friend will be left in the crossfires,” he points out. “That a chance you’re willin' to take?”</p><p>“She’s not my friend,” she says.</p><p>Everyone who knows Renee would know this is bullshit. Renee wouldn’t take a kill shot, she never hurts suspects unless she’s exhausted every other option, and she wouldn’t risk Allison’s life for a case.</p><p>But Miller doesn’t know that. He hesitates, and Allison doesn’t blame him—Renee is fucking terrifying like this, standing in the middle of a dark hallway and using a voice as rough as rock salt.</p><p>Renee told Allison once that the Renaissance painters were the ones responsible for popularizing the image of the winged, cherub angel. In the Bible, angels are God’s warriors, His knife in the dark. They do not serve humanity. They serve Heaven; they serve their God.</p><p>In times like these, Allison gets it. Renee holds herself ruthlessly. She looks like an army of one, ready to smite a city. Dangerous, unforgiving, absolute.</p><p>None of this is lost on Miller, and it seems he isn’t a betting man. He flings Allison away from him, the sounds of unoiled door hinges screeching open along with one, two, three bullets zipping through the air. All of them miss their targets, exiting through the vinyl of the screen door, the living room wall, the boarded-up window.</p><p>Allison sprints out the door, Renee hot on her heels, and finds Miller half-way down the path leading to his barn.</p><p>He must have an exit strategy in place for something like this. She could let him corner himself in the barn, but Allison doesn’t know for sure if Renee found the stolen whiskey in the cellar and knows even less what he might be hiding in there.</p><p>Allison shoots. None of the bullets pierce a hole in him, but one does scrape his thigh, another his ankle. He chokes out a cry and falls to his knees, clutching at the spot where blood is quickly soaking through his pants. He’s panting hard, eyes screwed shut.</p><p>Once she’s within earshot, Allison says, “I trust we don’t have to explain what we found in your cellar, Mr. Miller?”</p><p>“Who are you?”</p><p>She huffs, irritated. Allison is getting real sick of this question real fast.</p><p>“I'm the one holding a gun to your head,” she says simply, "and I happen to be a real good friend of the family that owns the saloon you just wrecked.”</p><p>Miller doesn’t say anything. His unkempt, graying hair falls in thick knots around his face, and his clothes hang off of him like rags on a scarecrow. He avoids meeting Allison’s eyes and twists his mouth into a twisted, tight line.</p><p>Allison isn’t in the mood for pleasantries, and it isn’t her style. She cocks her pistol and gets to the crux of it. “Who helped you?”</p><p>The guy spits out some blood, his hands and knees digging into the gravel. “No one.”</p><p>“How stupid do you think I am? You expect me to believe you got in and out of all these joints on your own without being noticed?” She digs the barrel of her gun into the back of his skull. “I’m only gonna ask once more. Who helped you?”</p><p>“I’m sure you’ve played tricks in the past, darlin’,” he says, voice pitched low and sweet, “but this ain’t one you’re gonna land.”</p><p>Allison circles him slowly, one foot in front of the other until she’s standing right in front of him, tipping his bruised face up with the mouth of her gun, gentle as a mother’s caress. “All right,” she says.</p><p>She holsters her gun and punches him across the face. </p><p>He goes down hard, biting back a noise of pain. Allison moves to drag him back to his knees and do it again, but Renee stops her with a quick hand around her bicep. “Allison.”</p><p>She yanks her arm back, furious. “What?”</p><p>“His partner had to have been unaffiliated with the establishments robbed, known the days the shipments were coming in, and been able to alert him if someone went poking around.”</p><p>Realization dawns on Allison like a wave breaking, pulling her under the riptide. She thinks of the taste of whiskey hitting the back of her throat, how badly the bartender wanted to impress her. At least Renee has the decency not to say I told you so.</p><p>She grits her teeth and spits out, “So, you get off on dragging innocent people into your crimes?”</p><p>Miller stays where he is, half on his knees and half sprawled across the trail leading to his house, his getaway plan sitting fifteen feet away. He must be livid.</p><p>If he is, he keeps it down for a good stretch of time, staring off into the middle-distance and refusing to say a word.</p><p>“This is my bed,” he says finally. Somehow. His lip is probably busted; Allison didn’t take off her rings. “And I intend to lie in it alone.”</p><p>The most basic principle of the job is this: Never get close to anyone outside your team. Vulnerability is the oil the perpetrator uses to wiggle out of your grip. The job will fall like silk through metal fingers if you don’t play your cards right. They’re basic principles for a reason. Dismiss them out of hand and you’ll find yourself digging your own grave.</p><p>Sam, a nineteen-year-old with bleeding eyes who gave Allison drinks on the house after only a few lines, who left Allison flowers with ants in them even after he found Renee in her room. Most importantly, he reminds Allison too much of Seth, reminds her what it’s like to take care of someone.</p><p>If she hands Miller over, it would only take the greenest prosecutor a half hour to figure everything out, and it would be Sam’s head on the block with Allison acting as executioner.</p><p><em>Fuck me, </em>Allison thinks.</p><p>“That’s real good of you,” she says. “Too bad it’ll do Sam jackshit.”</p><p>“Allison,” Renee cuts in. It means, <em>Enough. </em></p><p>She steps away, lets Miller stumble to his feet. She still has the gun he dropped. She tosses it back now.</p><p>“I’m giving you a head start. They’ll find out without our help eventually, but if you leave all that shit you took in the house, most likely they'll let you be. They don't have the resources and time to track you down if you’re in the wind.”</p><p>Miller blinks up at her, beaten to hell and not a damn clue what’s going on. Allison doesn’t have the fucking time nor patience for this.</p><p>“You hear me?”</p><p>“Yes, ma’am.” Even when she’s doing him a favor, he manages to sound hateful and grudging about it.</p><p>It’s not like the feeling isn’t mutual, so she turns on her heel, making a beeline for her horse. She doesn’t bother making sure Miller isn’t aiming his gun at her turned back. He’s a thief, but he doesn’t have killer in his eyes. Anyway, she couldn’t care less right now. She needs a break since yesterday.</p><p>Once they’re back in the saddle and trodding into town, Renee tells her, “That was a nice thing you did.”</p><p>The sun beats down on them mercilessly, and now that the adrenaline has gone, Allison feels every ache and pain in her body. </p><p>“Whatever,” she says. “He didn’t deserve it.”</p><p>Renee hums, her chin tucked over Allison’s shoulder. “That's not for us to say." </p><p>“Goddamn Sam,” she mutters without any heat. “That kid is fucking brainless, I swear to God.”</p><p>“He thought they were friends,” she says, “and Miller only went back on his word because it meant taking Sam off the board. No one will suspect him now.”</p><p>Allison huffs out a noise, not unlike the annoyed exhales her horse sometimes makes. “Yeah, Miller is one hell of a guy.”</p><p>Renee pauses. “I didn’t like what he said about you,” she admits, referring to what Allison assumes is the part where he suggested she was cheap. “You weren’t the only one itching for a fight.”</p><p>“Could’ve fooled me.” Still, she untangles one hand from around the reins and hooks it over the nape of Renee’s neck to plant a lingering kiss on her cheek. Their hats bump together. “What now?”</p><p>Renee leans into it like a sunflower toward the sun, hooking her thumbs into Allison’s belt loops and nosing past her collar. “I’d like to go home.”</p><p>They have the night paid for at their room, but if Renee is asking, Allison isn’t going to argue. She’s always been fucking terrible at saying no to Renee.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Of course, a whole different fuckton of problems is awaiting them back at the ranch.</p><p>The first thing Allison does when they get back home is flip through the thick pile of mail in their mailbox—or it’s the second thing she does, anyway. The first thing she does is try and distract Renee while she cleans up the stables and feeds the horses. Renee sends her off, saying if she isn’t going to help she should get out of the way.</p><p>Most of it is newspaper subscriptions. Others are letters, and out of the four, two of them are labeled <em>URGENT. </em>Both are addressed in her father’s handwriting.</p><p><em>Allison, </em>it says. <em>Your mother and I can no longer ignore your behavior. Either you peacefully leave the premises, or you will be escorted out and cut from our will. We can no longer help you if you refuse to be helped. You are the consequence of your actions. </em></p><p>Allison reads it. Reads it again. By the fourth read-through, she crumples the paper in her hand and flings it into the dirt at her feet.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Hours later, Renee murmurs into her shoulder, “You are the sole heir. They are obligated to leave you this property.”</p><p>Allison laughs dryly into her fist. She doesn’t know how to explain that her parents have never felt obligated to give Allison jackshit, not their money nor their good opinion. The only time they’ve felt obligated to give her their attention was when Allison snuck out of the house for the thousandth time but didn’t come back, leaving them to answer uncomfortable questions. Most people probably assume she was sent off to a home for unwed mothers.</p><p>They don’t miss her, Allison knows. They miss the illusion of a perfect daughter.</p><p>Allison shakes her head. “Not to a single, disgraced daughter they’re not.”</p><p>“Unless you were married,” she says.</p><p>Allison freezes.</p><p>“They would be appeased,” Renee goes on, “and the land would go to your husband.”</p><p>“The hell. Where do you expect me to find a husband, Renee?”</p><p>She stares at Allison. “In Seth.”</p><p>It hits Allison like a slap to the face. She flinches back violently. “What?”</p><p>“No one outside of us knows Seth is dead.” Renee sits up, watching her with lidded eyes. Allison feels pinned down and gutted open like a prized elk. “We could forge a marriage certificate and send it to your parents.”</p><p>“I—“ Allison isn’t processing a word being said. “How?”</p><p>“I wrote to Neil months ago and asked him,” she says, and Allison thinks of all the letters Renee has been writing over the last few weeks, back and forth between Neil and the rest of Andrew’s monsters, people who know first-hand how to cheat the law and do it well. She thinks of all the silent ways Renee has been asking Allison to trust her. “I already have a certificate.”</p><p>Allison barks out a laugh, scrubbing at her face. Fuck. <em>Fuck. </em>Seth would fucking hate this, being used so Allison can keep a roof over her head and someone else in her bed, but there’s no pretending that Allison isn’t cornered. She and Renee won’t be able to buy anything else on their own, and if she doesn’t do this, she’ll have to ask Minyard to marry Renee, which isn’t only less than ideal because he’s alive but also because there’s nothing Allison would hate more than getting on her knees and begging.</p><p>“You don’t have to say yes,” Renee says. “I only did it so you could have a choice.”</p><p>“Christ.” She sighs. “I know.”</p><p>“You don’t have to decide now.”</p><p>She shakes her head. “Look, I'm not gonna lie to you. I know Seth was a dick, but I don’t like it.” She makes a low, frustrated sound. “But if we don’t do it, we’re screwed six ways to Sunday.”</p><p>“Is that a yes?”</p><p>“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, it’s a yes.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Epilogue </strong>
</p><p><br/>The sky looks amazing at nightfall. Growing up in Boston, Allison always thought the night sky was no different from a monochrome canvas with pinpricks of white, and it wasn’t until she came out west that she realized how it blossoms. All the bruised, purpled starbursts and the blue claw marks slashing through the clouds.</p><p>It’s too cold for her to be out in only her nightgown and a shawl, but she wanted to see it, wanted to hear the insects chirping in the grass.</p><p>She sips at her drink. She’s been nursing the same glass of mead for the last hour—only two fingers; she promised Renee she would start to lay off. It’s gone warm between her hands.</p><p>Behind her, the screen door creaks open, and Renee comes out under the glow of an oil lamp. She’s wearing a jacket that feels prickly when she wraps her arms around Allison’s shoulders, still sleep-warm and smelling like their bed.</p><p>“Allison,” she mumbles. “Come back inside.”</p><p>The band around her finger is a warm focal point against Allison’s goose-bumped flesh. Allison reaches up with her left hand so the ring around her own finger touches Renee’s.</p><p>“In a second,” Allison says. “I’m—counting my blessings.”</p><p>Renee glances up, but her expression remains unchanged. The only thing she ever looks at in wonder is Allison.</p><p>“The sky will still be here in the morning.” She noses at her throat and hides a kiss under her jaw. “Allison.”</p><p>Allison nods slowly and steps back from the porch railing. Into Renee’s warm, waiting arms, curling into each other like two closed parentheses.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>just so all of u know i’m “back” on my bullshit @<a href="https://quensty.tumblr.com/">quensty</a> and @<a href="https://cleromancer.tumblr.com/">cleromancer</a> much like sisyphus is “back” on top of his hill. tell me what u thought down below or on tumblr! even if it’s just an emoji!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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